Let them come, he thinks. Let them come.

(((())))

On the way back to the flat, he stops at the shop, picks up supplies for the day ahead. Gloves, broom, bin bag. Cleaners. His hand flutters as he thinks about whether or not he has enough cleaner to kill the blood stains in the carpeting. He sucks in the beginning of a sob and drops the cleaner into his basket. He stops on the way to the check out, and stares at the premade sandwiches. Grabs two, and a soda, and pays.

Mustn't live up to expectations, he thinks.

Numb hands grip the sack handles tightly as he enters the flat. The lock is splintered, the door slightly ajar, still, and after three weeks of absence no one has come to fix it. To see if the waste of a man had survived. When the broken door closes behind him, he cannot escape this anymore. He must face the shit he started, if he's to end this pitiful existence of his.

He heads to the kitchen where the worst of the mess is concentrated. Carefully lays out the contents of each sack, and shakes his head at the sandwiches. Puts them in the barren fridge, but opens the soda. He'll need the syrupy disgust he feels at drinking it to hold himself together for this.

For hours, he does nothing but clean. Glass swept away, shards binned. Tiles scrubbed, bleached to within an inch of their life. His hands tremble inside of the gloves, flashes of this same procedure, repeated on concrete, with far more blood and water. His eyes slide shut, grief overwhelming him, until he forces them open again. Breathes in the chemical smell, and sets out to scrub the floor once more. It's almost white enough, now.

When he's cleaned all of the mess, he pulls off the gloves and rocks back onto his heels. The strange sense of accomplishment is short lived, and he's desperate to get it back. If this is his new life, this living from small glimmer of life to small glimmer of hope, he must take advantage of it. He pushes away the heavy, gnawing feeling in his gut, the disgust and hatred and pain. It will keep for another moment.

He eats, mechanically. He isn't even sure what it is he's eating. Thinks about it for a moment, and decides that might be for the best. He looks at the empty spaces of the flat. He hadn't had time or inclination to fill it with the usual things. The bare bones of a life here and there. He opens a bin bag and throws everything from the kitchen inside. Even the toaster. Ties the bag, and starts the next one. He repeats the process with every piece of his life. The bags line the entryway, black and orange and lumpy, full of the trappings of a life. Of a lie. When he gets to the closet, he shoves the box of her things, never opened, into the hall. He won't let himself look in it. His practical side comes out for a moment, and the bag with his suits and various clothes goes on the couch for later. He throws away all of his shoes. He doesn't really know why, but it seems appropriate. Why walk in the shoes of a killer?

The sun has gone down by the time he finishes with all of it. His mobile, silent on the counter, has been lit up with calls for hours. He's ignored every one of them. The seventeen texts- only seventeen? He wonders, then dismisses the thought- range from anger to vague concern. The last one was sent a bare half hour ago. Gwen. Ianto carefully puts the phone back down, instead of hurling it into oblivion. Or a bin bag.

He looks around the flat once more, making sure nothing has been missed. Everything has gone, each piece of his life here stacked into a neat row of bags. He pulls out the last sandwich and eats it as mechanically as the last. It tastes better, this time, and Ianto wonders if it's because of the accomplishment, or the fillings. He dials the number of a skip company he's used before, sets up a removal time for the morning. Leaves a note on the counter to the landlord, and puts his keys there too. Screw the severance. Picking up his one bag, he walks away.

He doesn't look back.

(((())))

He's checked into a hostel for the night. They looked at him and his bag and just shrugged. He paid in cash and didn't say a word. Now, staring up at the cracked, dingy ceiling, he wonders what to do next. There is a comfort in lists, and so he makes one after another, each trailing into infinity. Each ends with "Screw Jack." He's not even sure what that means anymore.

The exhaustion claims him, and he sleeps undisturbed for the first time in ages.

(((())))

He walks out of the hostel in a slightly wrinkled suit and converse. Bag in hand, he heads to the Hub, debating the pros and cons of stopping and buying new shoes on the way. Decides to keep the converse for the moment. No sense looking good for those cretins.

Ianto breathes deep inside the Tourist Information office. Stashes his bag behind the beaded curtain, and stands there a moment, still hidden. The world still his. He could still walk out. Walk into old habits and the old grief. He could walk right into the bay, and there'd be no one to stop him. If they didn't come to get him yesterday, then their threats were empty. They were empty. Emptier than him. At least he had his pain. They only had pity.

He straightens his tie, brushes the lint off of his jacket, and smiles, fleetingly, at the stained and dirty converse. Knows that he'll hit a nerve with Jack on that one.

He looks forward to that moment.